r. But when Mrs. Luttrell had kissed him and said
good-night, when he, with filial courtesy, had conducted her to the door
of her bed-room, and taken his final leave of her and of Angela on the
landing, then he made his way to the library, rang for more lights, more
coal, spirits and hot water, and prepared to devote a little time to the
deciphering of the letter which Mr. John Stretton had been careless
enough to lose.

He was not fond of the library. It was next to the room in which they
had laid Richard Luttrell when they brought him home after the
"accident." It looked out on the same stretch of garden; the rose trees
that had tapped mournfully at that other window, when Hugo was compelled
by Brian to pay a last visit to the room where the dead man lay, had
sent out long shoots that reached the panes of the library window, too.
When there was any breeze, those branches would go on tap, tapping
against the glass like the sound of a human hand. Hugo hated the noise
of that ghostly tapping: he hated the room itself, and the long, dark
corridor upon which it opened, but it was the most convenient place in
the house for his purpose, and he therefore made use of it.

"San Stefano!" he murmured to himself, as he looked at the name of the
place from which the letter had been dated. "Why, I have heard my uncle
mention San Stefano as the place where Brian was born. They lived there
for some months. My aunt had an illness there, which nobody ever liked
to talk about. Hum! What connection has Mr. John Stretton with San
Stefano, I wonder? Let me see."

He spread the letter carefully out before him, turned up the lamp, and
began to read. As he read, his face turned somewhat pale; he read
certain passages twice, and then remained for a time in the same
position, with his elbows upon the table and his face supported between
his hands. He found matter for thought in that letter.

It ran as follows:--

"My Dear Mr. Stretton,--I will continue to address you by this name as
you desire me to do, although I am at a loss to understand your motive
in assuming it. You will excuse my making this remark; the confidence
that you have hitherto reposed in me leads me to utter a criticism which
might otherwise be deemed an impertinence. But it seems to me a pity
that you either did not retain your old name and the advantages that
this name placed in your way, or that you did not take up the
appellation which, as I fear I must repeat, is the